Chapter 12 #3
She says nothing, but I can feel it, the itch behind her silence.
She’s almost done with me. I take a breath and swing for the fences.
“I got into a music school in New York. Took an early graduation. Pukekohe was too much. I couldn’t stay.
Maybe it was selfish, bailing like that.
It probably was. But if I stayed... I just couldn’t stay. ”
Betty tilts her head. “So, why’d you stop talking to Rhys?”
“Because…” I search for a way to put it that won’t make her hate me. “… Because I just couldn’t anymore.”
“Why?”
The answer lives in a strongbox in my head, but if anyone deserves the contents, it’s Betty Muldoon.
I drop my gaze, studying the grain of the wooden table.
“He was mad at me for leaving. Every time we gamed together, he’d just…
unload. And then it was like I was right back in Pukekohe with him.
I told him I couldn’t hear it anymore, but… ”
I swipe a hand across my sweaty forehead, feeling as hot and nauseous as the time I had dengue fever.
“What?” Betty says, and I force myself to keep going.
“I told Rhys it felt like he was hurting me on purpose. That if he actually liked me, he’d stop trying to make me feel guilty for getting out. But he wouldn’t stop. And I told him to leave. Go somewhere else, but he didn’t. Then I just felt helpless. So I ghosted him.”
I force myself look her in the eyes. “I’m not gonna pretend I could’ve saved him by staying, but I left, and then I disappeared, and if that made things worse, if it pushed him further, I’m just… really fucking sorry.”
I brace for an explosion, but Betty doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. Just stares past me, her eyes unfocused. I’m about to ask if she’s okay when her baby hiccups. The sound breaks whatever trance she was in. She leans over the pram, her face twisting into the saddest smile I’ve ever seen.
“I understand,” she tells the baby. “I kind of did the same thing. After you left, Rhys got so angry all the time. If I asked him about uni applications or getting a job or even to pass the milk, he’d lose it. By the time he graduated, I was basically living with my boyfriend.”
I want to say something comforting, but I know better. Betty doesn’t need reassurance. She needs to say the hard things and not have me flinch and turn away.
“He started drinking all the time,” Betty says, in a voice as flat as paper. “He and Mum would scream at each other, and I’d just… leave. Then he started taking pills. And other stuff. And after that, it was just kind of… over.”
I’m so aware of my breathing, the feel of my clothes against my skin, the clink of glasses and the murmur of voices around us.
I hold the space like a tent over both of us.
I won’t let it fall. I can’t. It’s what I owe Rhys, for those hours of secondhand smoke, awkward chats, and late-night game sessions.
For the things he gave me when he had so little to give. “I’m sorry, Betty.”
She presses a black-lacquered fingernail into the corners of her eyes. “I’m still so angry at him. I still can’t believe he’s gone. He was so young. I thought there was time to fix things. I thought we had time.”
I nod, my eyes burning with tears I don’t feel like I have the right to shed.
“I was being a bitch when I asked why you left,” Betty says. “Because I… I wasn’t really speaking to him when he…”
A tiny sob slips out, and she presses her lips together, sealing the grief back in.
“It’s not your fault,” I say through barely parted lips. “Things with him got so bad I couldn’t handle it. Even a hundred miles away, I couldn’t handle it. And you were right up close.”
Betty nods, tears streaming down her face. She rummages in the carriage under the pram and takes out a tiny toiletries bag. I watch as she dabs her face with tissues, reapplies her lipstick and fixes her winged eyeliner in a small compact mirror. She takes her time, and I don’t rush her.
“So,” Betty says finally, tucking everything back into the bag. “About your plan to fuck everyone over at school… I might have reassessed my position.”
I let out a shocked laugh, and Betty joins me. We’re not exactly happy. It’s more like ducks flapping their wings after a squabble. Releasing the tension. When we’re done, Betty gives me a crooked smile. “You saw my comment on Jenny’s post, hey?”
“I did. Full marks, by the way.”
“God, she’s a cunt.” She glances guiltily at the pram. “Shit. Gotta get a handle on that before he learns what words mean.”
I laugh again. The atmosphere between us is completely different now. Friendly. “What’s his name? Your baby, I mean.”
Suddenly, we’re right back in grief. Betty’s lower lip quivers, and I want to slap myself. “You don’t have to tell me.”
“It’s fine. I’ll say it when I go. Look, you might have seen from my socials, but I work for CyberCX. I do security stuff. Data recovery. That kind of thing…”
I did know that. It was part of why I wanted to meet her today. I hold the silence, willing her to keep going.
She gives me a sideways look. “As far as Rhys’s accounts go… if I wanted to, I could theoretically do a proper forensic sweep. Recover deleted messages. Trace logins and IP trails and theoretically pass the info on to you.”
“Well, theoretically, that would be amazing,” I say, lightheaded with relief. “If you get anything serious, I’m a step closer to doing something for Rhys that isn’t just screwing with idiots at a party.”
“Cool. Well, is there anything else?”
Excitement explodes in the pit of my stomach. If Betty has the skill set she’s claiming, she’s not just a potential ally; she’s exactly what I’ve been looking for.
“Actually…” I say, my voice quivering. “I might have something else.”
“What?”
All my instincts are screaming to stay quiet. To not yap about something I’m not even close to proving. But I can’t look into what’s happening at Thompson Farms any deeper on my own, and it feels like Betty Muldoon and I have clocked fifteen years of trust in ten minutes.
“Does your mum still work for Thompson Farms?”
Betty’s face closes like a book. “You need to be careful. That place is—”
“Big bucks for Pukekohe?” I say, quoting Thrasher.
She nods.
“I know,” I say, leaning forward. “And you can tell me to go fuck myself, but there’s dirt there. Piles of it. And if I’m right, Thrasher Thompson’s in serious shit. Him and God knows how many pricks who work for him. Including Jenny’s ex-husband—”
“Will Sharpe.” Betty’s eyes blaze like struck matches. “I know him. Him and Thrasher used to… Look, what have you got?”
I cast a glance at Cece, who’s thankfully deep in conversation with a customer. The last thing I need is her knowing I suspect her precious Will’s involved in a criminal conspiracy.
“Thrasher came in here and took a work call in front of me,” I tell Betty.
“It sounds like he treats his fruit pickers like shit. Off-the-books wages, unpaid overtime and fuck knows what else. I’d bet every dollar I have that he’s got them here illegally.
Confiscating passports, like those Tauranga wine growers.
Problem is, I don’t have any proof. Maybe you or your mum could… ?”
Our eyes lock. We both know what I’m asking her.
“I should go,” Betty says, getting to her feet.
“Wait,” I blurt. “That’s not all. I’ve found… pictures.”
Her eyebrow arches. “Pictures?”
“Nothing disgusting, I promise,” I say, grabbing my phone. “But they might lead to something disgusting. Can I show you?”
She sits, poised on the edge of the seat as though about to run. “Fine.”
I open the image folder and hand her my phone. “Swipe through. There’s seven altogether.”
The pictures all show the same thing: my ex-classmates and current Thompson Farm employees, drinking and smoking in a barn.
And they’re not alone. In every shot, there are female employees wearing the same yellow vests and navy workpants as the guys.
But unlike the guys, who are all whiter than mayonnaise, the girls appear to be Filipino, Fijian and Balinese.
Betty scrolls, her expression darkening. “How old are these girls?”
“My question exactly,” I say through my teeth. “My second question would be, ‘What’s their immigration status?’ The third question I’d ask is, ‘How optional is their attendance at these parties?’”
Betty puts down my phone. The screen shows Thrasher with his arms draped over two dark-haired girls holding Woodstock cans. Both of them look like they could be in high school.
“See how there’s a mirror on the table in front?
” I say, pointing to it. “Nothing on it, but something tells me Thrasher doesn’t use to it to check his hair.
And these parties happen every last Friday of the month.
‘Push out Parties’ he calls them. POP’s for short.
Threw me off when I first saw the acronym. I had no idea what he was on about.”
Betty’s eyes become slits. “Where did you get these pictures?”
“Private Facebook group. ‘Tommo’s Top Farm Lads.’”
Her nose wrinkles.
“Yeah, these losers are about as bright as they are classy.”
“And they let you into their Facebook group?”
“They let in a clone of Xavier McColl’s account,” I say, unable to keep the note of pride from my voice. “It got deleted twenty minutes later, but not before I saved everything I could get my hands on.”
For the first time since she walked in, Betty looks at me with something like respect. “You’re serious about this, aren’t you?”
“Hundred percent.”
Betty goes quiet, and as the seconds stretch between us, she starts to look angry. No, she starts looking like that monster in the Goya painting that’s biting the guy’s head off.
“Ada?” she says in a voice like outer space.
“Yeah?”
“Did you know Thrasher beat up Rhys? The year after you left school?”
My throat goes tight. “No.”
“He was at the corner pub. Thrasher picked a fight, broke his nose, then he and his mates dragged Rhys outside, and Thrasher pissed on him.”
My whole body turns to ice. “Jesus…”
“Fuck him,” Betty mutters. “Fuck him and fuck that farm. Send me everything you’ve got. All of it.”
“Shit. Wow. Okay. I will.”
She stands. “Gotta go. Talk soon.”
Betty grips the handle of her pram and pushes it toward the door like it’s a war chariot.
“Thanks!” I shout after her like a twat.
“Don’t thank me yet.” She looks over her shoulder at me. “My baby’s Jackson Rhys. We call him JR. But you probably already guessed it was something like that.”
My throat closes into a pinhole as I watch Rhys’s sister leave the pub.
I feel like I’ve just gone ten rounds with McGregor at his meanest. I still want booze, but even I know a drink won’t fix the state I’m in.
I grab my phone and book a ride to Mission Bay.
The app tells me the car is less than a minute away.
I shove my phone and my manila folder into my tote bag, pop two Nicabates and tell Cece I’m going shopping, then head outside alone.